


I Would Burn the World to Lick the Taste of Blood From Your Lips

by leonidaslion



Series: Suite!verse [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how the world ends, this is how the world ends, this is how the world ends ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Would Burn the World to Lick the Taste of Blood From Your Lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [concernedlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/concernedlily/gifts).



> [Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/9415.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [More Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/13379.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [Art + Fanmix](http://abendiboo.livejournal.com/13726.html") by abendiboo
> 
> [Vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyyQMBKWG3I) by loverstar  
> [Trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWxN30zvGw8) by loverstar  
> [Vid 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmC3R8PME4&feature=related) by loverstar
> 
> [Audiofic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/category/seriessuiteverse) by juice817

When Dean opens his eyes on the first day of the end of the world, it doesn’t seem any different from any other morning. He’s lying in a bed in a crappy motel room, staring at the ceiling. Someone else _(Sam)_ is moving around just out of his line of sight, and there’s the smell of fresh coffee and hot donuts.

He thinks for a moment that it was all a bad dream—the graveyard, the girl, the demon—but then he tries to sit up, and chains dig into his right wrist and both his ankles. He’s left looking at the yellowed-eyed demon, which is in the middle of laying out a series of ritualistic goblets on the table where Sam should have been putzing around on the laptop. Dean looks long enough to recognize the goblets as the same kind of demonic telephone Meg was using in Chicago _(reach out and cut someone)_ and then drops his head back onto the pillow.

His left hand is free—his stupid hand, the one that always fumbles and can’t do delicate work worth shit: work like, oh say, picking locks—and he feels around on the nightstand next to the bed for something he can use as a weapon. Disoriented and more than a little alarmed by his current situation, he’s clumsier than he normally would have been and he knocks the coffee and a bag of donuts off and onto the floor.

The yellow-eyed demon strolls into view and smiles down at him. “Sammy just took out Cleveland,” it announces. “Wanna watch the footage?”

Oh God.

 _Sam._

Dean’s throat closes up with the sudden shock of memories, and all of the smart alec remarks he might have made are trapped on the wrong side of the blockage. His eyes sting, but he refuses to cry. Not in front of this yellow-eyed son of a bitch, who burned everything he ever loved to the ground and is dancing on the ashes.

Still grinning, the demon wheels the TV right up next to the bed and turns it on: volume blasting loudly enough that Dean’s eardrums pulse in protest. It hurts, but not as much as the images and the reports that are flickering across the screen.

The reporters don’t know enough yet to dole out facts: they’re speculating about bombs and terrorist attacks, listing other cities that have met the same fate. As Dean watches, the channel cuts to a reporter who is interviewing a wild-eyed survivor. The survivor hugs his soot-smeared blanket tighter as he talks about sheets of white fire that ran through the streets like a predator, hunting after living flesh—birds, rats, dogs, people—and clinging to everything it touched. Devouring flesh and bone but leaving blood behind to smear the pavement and wet the earth.

“And how did you escape, sir?” the reporter asks. He’s clearly skeptical of the man’s story.

“The church,” the man mutters. “It wouldn’t come inside the church, it.” He cuts his eyes to the side, showing more white than anything else. “It wouldn’t come inside because He wasn’t there to make it, but He’s coming, He is.”

“Who’s coming?” The reporter is still smirking, but Dean thinks there might be a nervous cast to it now.

“The man with the yellow eyes,” the man whispers, and then they’re back to footage of the wreckage: melted runnels in the buildings and pavement where the ‘living fire’ flowed. There’s ash above the red-drenched streets—ash blowing into drifts and blotting out the sun—and it used to be trees, it used to be cats, it used to be people.

Dean turns his face away from the nightmare. Closing his eyes, he lets his self-defense mechanisms shut down all of the higher thought processes in his brain, and he spends the next twenty-four hours in a protective bubble of stunned stupor. It’s shock or denial or both, and although the demon leaves the TV on, Dean only hears a single word, pulsing in his mind with every beat of his heart.

Sammy. Sammy. Sammy.

When he comes back to himself, he thinks that he can taste blood in his mouth. He can’t remember whether that taste was there when he woke up last time, but it probably wasn’t. That coppery tang is probably just in his imagination. After all, he woke clean: hair still damp with water and smelling faintly of cheap shampoo. But the taste doesn’t go away, and Dean finds himself wondering whether the demon might have washed his skin clean while leaving his mouth soiled.

The TV has been pushed back from the bed, but it’s still on. The demon is sprawled in an armchair, watching the continuous coverage of the apocalypse with sadistic glee. It chuckles as the local news channel flashes its title card: a black screen with stark red letters that proclaim this as the _End of Days_. There aren’t any commercials. Dean guesses that the executives don’t see much point anymore to advertising toilet paper and automobiles anymore.

Moving his eyes away from the TV, he trails his tongue around the inside of his mouth and thinks that he’d love to gargle a couple of bottles of gin right now: get rid of that slick, copper taste. There’s nothing but a glass of water on the nightstand, though, and he isn’t asking that yellow-eyed son of a bitch for a thing. It may have taken him time to learn that lesson, but it’s etched into him now.

No more goddamned deals.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Dean’s bladder becomes insistent enough on the second day to become painful, he breaks his hostile silence to demand a bathroom break. Instead of unlocking his chains, though, the yellow-eyed demon just tosses him an empty plastic water bottle. It takes Dean a few minutes to understand the implicit instruction. Until now, he has been too shocked to get angry, but here it comes: black, thick rage like tar.

Ridden by that humiliated fury, Dean hurls the bottle back at the demon’s face. When the son of a bitch knocks the projectile away with a sweep of power, he follows up with curses and demands and obscenities.

“You fucking coward! Unchain me, you son of a bitch! Fucking motherfucker!”

“Language, Dean-o,” the yellow-eyed demon says mildly. “Whatever would Sammy say if he were here?” Floating the water bottle up to its hand, it gives it a meaningful waggle. “Now, you let me know when you can’t hold it anymore.”

Dean continues to rail at the thing until his throat aches and his lips feel numb and then, breathing heavily, he sinks back against the bed.

“Finished?” the demon asks.

Dean’s jaw clenches. “You’re going to need to let me up sooner or later,” he points out coldly.

“And how do you figure that?”

“Because I’m gonna have to shit, asshole.”

The demon throws back its head and laughs—a dark sound that scrapes against Dean’s skin and leaves him feeling unclean. “Don’t worry, Dean-o,” it says when it has itself under control. “Here at Hotel Azazel, we care enough to give you the very best: sponge baths, fresh sheets, new clothes, the works. I’ll keep you nice and clean for Sammy.”

Dean’s stomach crawls, and a lump of emotion wedges itself in his throat. He isn’t sure whether he’s horrified, humiliated or infuriated. Possibly a little of all three. The only thing he does know is that it can’t be serious. It _can’t_.

It’s only a few hours later when he finds out that it is.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean spends the next few days doing anything and everything he can think of to get out of the chains. He picks at the lock with the fingers of his left hand until they’re numb and red. He tries to break the headboard where the other end of the chain is bolted. He fights to slip his wrist through the metal ring of the cuff.

When blood starts to slick the inside of Dean’s right wrist, where the skin has been rubbed raw from all the yanking and twisting, the yellow-eyed demon finally gets annoyed enough to float a syringe over and jab him in the side. He’s used to the demon muddling his thoughts with its power whenever it needs to change the sheets or clean him _(son of a bitch won’t come within grabbing distance unless Dean is pliant and docile)_ , but this drug is different. It hits him like a fucking bulldozer, leaving his limbs warm and heavy and his mind completely unaffected.

Dean is embarrassingly, impotently aware as the demon cleans and bandages his wrist. When it strips him and wipes him down with a damp facecloth, touching him with a kind of clinical thoroughness that leaves him nauseous and fuming, he feels everything. He’s free—wrist and ankles unchained—but he can’t run. Can’t fight back. Can’t fucking _move_.

When the demon is finished washing him, it dresses him in a new t-shirt and pair of sweats and then snaps the manacles closed once more, just like always. Then it leans close—filling his vision with that wide, mocking smile—and whispers, “You can’t escape, Dean-o. And if you keep trying, I’ll have to keep you drugged. Just imagine. Helpless. Humiliated.”

It pushes a hand into his sweats, cupping him gently, and Dean swears futilely in his mind. He’s sweating everywhere, but it feels like the insides of his stomach and chest are coated with ice.

“Just like this,” the demon purrs, stroking its thumb down the length of his cock. “So pretty and open. All the time. I don’t think you’d like that very much, but it’s your call.” Then, smirking, it slides its hand free and strolls away.

Dean doesn’t actually give up on escape after that—he doesn’t think he knows how to surrender that completely, even if he wanted to—but he’s a lot less proactive about it.

He watches the yellow-eyed demon.

He waits for an opportunity.

And time passes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Soon after the incident with the syringe, Dean realizes that there’s another way out. It isn’t the best option—isn’t even a _good_ option. It’s just the only one available to him. Death by dehydration and starvation isn’t exactly the way that he always thought he’d go out, but it’s more dignified than continually shitting himself and having the yellow-eyed demon clean up the mess.

It’s also a hell of a lot less terrifying than lying here waiting for his brother—the fucking _antichrist_ —to come collect him.

The speed with which his body begins to fail fills him with a kind of savage victory. After only three days, his head is pounding fiercely, and his mouth has become so dry that it hurts: lips chapped and starting to peel. He feels like crap, actually, but at the same time he has never felt quite so victorious.

Dean may be dying, but at least it’s on his terms. His way.

On the fourth day, the demon leaves the room for the first time since Dean woke up. It returns an hour later, hand in hand with a little girl in a bright pink dress. The girl is talking a mile a minute, oblivious to her danger, and immediately scrambles up onto the bed with Dean. Perching on his stomach, she ask if he has any more candy, and what kind of game is he playing, and can she play too? She has blonde hair, and innocent blue eyes, and a missing front tooth.

The yellow-eyed demon doesn’t say anything as it shuts the door, but then again it doesn’t have to. The threat is clear. This time, when it floats a glass of apple juice and half a sandwich over to the nightstand _(the girl, Krissy, claps in delight at the magic display)_ , Dean eats.

Krissy spends the rest of the afternoon and evening curled up against Dean’s side listening as he tells her stories. At first, he tries to tell himself that he’s just trying to distract her from the brutal images that the networks are still broadcasting, but eventually he has to admit that it’s more for his own peace of mind. If he’s making up stories, then he isn’t thinking about how this particular tale is going to end.

He tries to outlast her—plans on trying to bargain with the demon for her life once she’s asleep—but less than five minutes after he obediently eats his dinner, his eyelids start drooping. The yellow-eyed bastard drugged him.

“Sumbitch,” he mumbles. “Doan hur’ ‘er, doan …”

Darkness.

When he wakes the following morning, Krissy is gone. Dean hopes that she’s okay, but knows better than to actually expect it.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he says in a voice that’s still rough from yesterday’s use.

The yellow-eyed demon gives him one of those quicksilver grins and replies, “I don’t think so, Dean-o. Not this time. Sammy’s not gonna let that happen.”

Dean looks away from the shape of his little brother’s name on the bastard’s lips, turning his face to the far wall, and notices a maroon smear low on the wallpaper. Like a child’s handprint.

He wasn’t really expecting anything else, but the rush of anger and guilt that floods him in the face of that proof is strong enough that he almost chokes on it. He _does_ gag at the sudden, overpowering scent of orange juice and bacon as the demon floats breakfast over.

“Bon appetit,” the demon chuckles.

For a moment, Dean considers refusing. The son of a bitch broke their unspoken agreement: why the fuck should Dean live up to his end of the bargain? Then the moment passes and he reaches out blindly for the bacon with his left hand. After all, there are more children where Krissy came from. There’s plenty of space on the walls for more bloody handprints.

Some battles just aren’t worth the cost.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Once the novelty of being held prisoner wears off, Dean gets bored in a hurry. He feels bad about it, being bored when the world is dying, when little Krissy’s handprint is staring at him from the wall, but he can’t help himself. The yellow-eyed demon doesn’t offer him any books or magazines, the TV keeps showing the same depressing footage _(black clouds and broken bodies and rivers gone red with blood)_ , and Dean has never been good at distracting himself. At least not when he has a) no privacy, and b) no use of his right hand.

The really weird part of it is that no matter how bored he gets, he never stops feeling scared or angry or _(more and more)_ betrayed. It’s as though there are two people inside of him: one who is forever on high alert and one who would be willing to gnaw his own arm off for a change of scenery.

Left alone with nothing but his own thoughts to amuse himself, Dean spends his time not thinking about Sam. He doesn’t think about his brother’s hands on him, or how wide Sam’s smile could get, or the goofy way he laughed when he found something really funny. He sure as fuck doesn’t think about the way Sam’s eyes looked in the graveyard: haunted and desperate and damned. He doesn’t think about the way that Sam kissed him. Like an apology, like a promise, like a goodbye.

Dean also doesn’t think about the fact that he hasn’t heard the hounds since he woke up, or about the fact that he should have been kibble over a week ago, but he’s aware of it just the same.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Towards the end of his second week of captivity, a new emotion begins to rise within him: one that he refuses to acknowledge, but which leaves him sweating and cold and nauseous. His heart trembles alarmingly in his chest, and the world is streaked with periods of painful lucidity and dreamlike hazes where the news announcer’s voice distorts and melts into his father’s, and Bobby’s, and sometimes Sam’s. They always say the same thing, always ask the same, accusing question.

 _How could you let this happen, Dean? How?_

Dean never knows how to answer.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Two weeks and three days after he first woke up in the room, Dean opens his eyes to find demons filing in through the front door. At first, he isn’t sure whether he’s dreaming or not because his head is still fucked up from his most recent cleaning. Everything is muted and distant, like an out of focus picture.

“Mmm, he’s even prettier than you said,” a woman’s voice purrs. She steps toward him, one hand outstretched and eyes covered with obscene, milk-white cauls. Dean wonders absently what those long, filed nails will feel like on his skin, but the yellow-eyed demon grasps her hand and yanks her around before he can find out.

“I warned you,” it snaps. “No touching Sammy’s property.”

“But he shines so bright,” another demon responds. This one is wearing a man in a grey suit, but he has the same, unsettling white eyes as the woman.

There’s a ring of those eyes, Dean realizes slowly: all of them white and seemingly blind, but he can feel the demons’ terrible, burning attention even through the haze clouding his mind. Frightened in a diffuse, fuzzy way, he moans softly and gives the chains a weak tug. The air in the room instantly goes sharp and hot. Threatening.

“I called you here because I thought you could control yourselves!” the yellow-eyed demon shouts, and even Dean can hear the panic in its voice. Normally, he’d cheer to hear the son of a bitch thrown off balance, but right now he’s too scared _(in the lion’s den, I’m in the lion’s den)_ to care.

“What is he?” another woman asks. Her tongue darts out, delicate, to lick at her lips.

“He’s Sam Winchester’s,” the yellow-eyed demon replies, “And unless you want to be hunted down and slaughtered like the mewling dogs you are, you’ll get your fucking appetites under control and get into position.”

“Just a little taste, Azazel,” a new voice says, and Dean’s eyes skate over to a lean man with a beaked, cruel nose. “I want to see what I’m missing out on.”

“Alistair!” the yellow-eyed demon calls warningly, but the man with the beaked nose is still coming closer, and reaching, and Dean tries to twist out of the way but he can’t go anywhere, and—

There’s a sudden explosion that shakes the room, knocking some of the demons off their feet and cracking the ceiling. Alistair glances toward the door, and his entire body goes rigid.

“Positions, everyone,” he says, and then reaches out and yanks the man beside him around. “And don’t look at the meat! It’s easier to think if you aren’t looking at it!”

Dean shuts his eyes for a few moments, dizzy and confused and frightened, and when he opens them again the demons have formed a ring around him. They all have their backs to him, facing outward even if it means facing away from the open door, and the room is so thick with their power that Dean’s having trouble breathing. The yellow-eyed demon watches the door from its position just outside the circle.

“Remember,” Alistair says softly. “Sanctuary for any of us who survive this.”

“Agreed,” the yellow-eyed demon answers without turning its attention from the world outside.

“’S goan on?” Dean slurs. He sounds about as coherent as he feels: vowels sliding all over the place and consonants sloppy.

“We’re saving your life,” the yellow-eyed demon answers tightly. “Now shut up and stay still. Don’t draw any more attention to yourself than you already are.”

Dean wants to protest that he isn’t actually doing anything, and then he thinks that he would rather point out that he doesn’t need fucking _demons_ helping him, of all things, but then a new flood of power washes over him—an ocean crashing down on top of the great lake that was already threatening to drown him—and he has to close his eyes to keep from puking all over himself. After a few moments, the pressure loosens enough for his vision to return. The world is a little washed out and dull, but at least he can see.

Sam is standing in the doorway.

His brother is wearing a ratty pair of jeans and a button-down shirt that Dean thinks might be blue, but he can’t tell for sure. He can’t tell for sure because the shirt is molded to his brother’s body, slicked black with the same blood that coats Sam’s hands and peppers his face. His eyes are yellow: brighter than the demon’s and burning with a faint, gold cast. In the sky behind his brother’s shoulders, Dean can see smoke rising, black and thick.

Sam looks straight past the waiting demons as though they don’t exist—gazing straight into Dean with an intensity and a hunger that jolts through his bones and leaves him shivering uncontrollably.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, and the word is a prayer and a caress and a summons all at once. It wraps around Dean, molten, and burns enough of the fog away for him to understand that he’s in deep shit. Sam moves forward with deliberate, slow steps, coming for him, coming to take him, and the yellow-eyed demon steps into his path.

“You’re a few days early, Sammy,” it greets him.

Sam stops, but his eyes don’t leave Dean. The smothering weight of power increases: pressing in on all sides firmly enough that Dean lets out an involuntary grunt of protest.

“Get out of my way,” Sam says. All of the emotion has drained from his voice, leaving it empty and wasted. Inhuman.

“You don’t want to get him dirty,” the demon responds. “Don’t want to stain him with someone else’s blood.”

“He’s mine.”

“All yours, champ,” the yellow-eyed demon agrees smoothly. “But you told me to keep him safe for you, remember?”

There’s a moment of silence while Sam visibly struggles to process that information and then he says, still in that lifeless voice, “Yes. I remember. I want him now.”

The pressure in the room pulses and one of the demons circling Dean crumbles into dust without any warning. Dean flinches, startled, and then jerks again as something insubstantial but undeniably solid runs down his chest beneath his shirt. Impossible as it seems, it feels like Sam’s hand. Like Sam stroking him. Dean tenses, trying to twist away, and then that ghostly hand slides over his cock and he lets out an involuntary gasp. Almost immediately, his gasp cuts off in a grunt as something that feels like a lubed-up finger pushes inside him. Phantom teeth nip at his nipples.

“Fuck,” he pants, and yanks on the chains hard enough to reopen the healing wound on his wrist.

“You aren’t ready,” the demon blurts in a rush, but it might as well be speaking in a foreign language because there’s another pulse and a second demon crumbles.

The sensation of being felt up intensifies and deepens: power scrapes against Dean’s insides, rough and overly eager. Dean’s aware enough of his own danger now that he tries to stay quiet, but he hasn’t ever felt anything like this before and it _hurts_. He chokes audibly on his moan.

“I want him now,” Sam repeats. “Move.”

“You touch him now, Sammy, and you’re gonna hurt him. You don’t want to hurt him, do you?”

The unseen hands pause and the illusionary mouth goes still, but a third demon flies apart into a black dust cloud and that sensation of _Sammy_ inside of him sharpens. Dean understands, belatedly, that the ring of demons is acting as a dam and holding back the full force of his brother’s power. Slowly but surely, Sam is punching holes in the concrete fill, and eventually the whole thing is going to crumble.

Then, whether he means to or not, Sam is going to rip him apart.

Another demon explodes and Dean lets out a hoarse sob as his brother’s power worms further into him. He’s fighting his chains mindlessly now: too hurt and panicked to stay still.

“Meg’s out,” the yellow-eyed demon says quickly. “You remember Meg, don’t you, Sammy? She hurt him. She wanted to break him. You have to stop her before she does that again.”

It’s such an obvious, childish diversion that Dean would laugh if he wasn’t in so much pain. But Sam isn’t operating at full capacity right now and it shows in the way that his eyes finally slide over to the yellow-eyed demon’s. The force of his power eases into something absent and stroking and Dean sags against the mattress as the pain vanishes.

“Where is she?” Sam growls.

“Boston,” the yellow-eyed demon answers. It sounds more sure of itself now that Sam has acknowledged its presence. “Kill her and I’ll bring Dean to you there. Three days.”

“Three days,” Sam repeats, as though tasting the words. His power is still rubbing up against Dean—gentle now, so gentle—and Dean realizes with horrified embarrassment that his cock is starting to fill.

“Three days,” the demon agrees, spreading its hands. “What do you say, Sammy?”

Sam is silent for a moment and then he says, slowly, “I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t. I can’t go if he’s here. I want. Need to touch him.”

The press of his power increases again, burning, and Dean bites through his lower lip. Shocking taste of blood, coppery and warm, on his tongue.

“Let me take him away, then,” the demon tries. It sounds desperate. “Just three more days, Sammy, and then you can touch him all you want.”

“He’ll be lonely without me,” Sam protests. “I don’t want him to miss me.”

Dean shivers because some of the insanity he hears comes from the power riding his brother, but he thinks _(dear God let me be wrong)_ that some of it might just be Sam.

“I can put him into a dreamless sleep,” the demon promises. “He’ll close his eyes here and then open them again when you come for him. Just like in the fairy tales.”

Sam hesitates and then, slowly, nods. His power pulls out of Dean with dragging, clinging reluctance, and he chokes out, “Go. Now.”

The yellow-eyed demon is by Dean’s side almost before Sam has finished speaking. Dean thinks he sees blood on the demon’s lip—blood dribbling down its chin—but he’s desperate enough that it doesn’t really register; he’s too busy trying to figure out how to stop this from happening.

He can’t let this happen, can't let the demon put him under because, as dangerous as Sam is right now, this is Dean’s last chance for escape.

If he goes under, he’s going to _stay_ under until it’s too late to matter.

“Time to go,” the demon announces as it reaches for him.

 _No,_ Dean thinks, trying to pull back. He blinks and then, abruptly, he’s opening his eyes in another motel room. Unchained. Freshly bathed.

Naked.

Sam is wrapped around him: hands roaming over Dean’s arms and chest and stomach. Dean is reeling with disorientation, but it still doesn’t take him more than a heartbeat to figure out that his brother isn’t wearing anything either. He makes a tiny, startled noise and feels Sam grin where their cheeks are pressed together.

“Hey, baby,” Sam purrs, nuzzling at his ear. “I’m home.”


End file.
